


Four Times Derek Saved Stiles From A Spider

by ShadowPatronus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Arachnophobia, Firefighter Derek, Gift Fic, M/M, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowPatronus/pseuds/ShadowPatronus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has arachnophobia and Derek is always there to rescue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Derek Saved Stiles From A Spider

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graceling_in_a_suit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceling_in_a_suit/gifts).



> Wrote this to be American, but as I am in fact Australian there might be a few weird words or something that I don't know about. Let me know if I need to change anything.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> ((Also, Happy 17th E!))

Derek slowly climbs the creaky stairs up to his apartment, forcing his tired limbs to keep going. Just one more flight and then he can collapse on his bed. 

Today had been exhausting. A leaky gas pipe and a stray spark had sent the University laboratories ablaze. No casualties, but many wearying hours of work.

As Derek's heavy, boot-clad foot lands on the second last step, his rambling, tired thoughts are interrupted by a shrill scream filtering through the door just to his left. Derek's heart rate spikes, adrenalin soaring. His firefighting instincts kicking in, he leaps up the last steps and bolts to the door, relieved to find it unlocked. His thoughts race, imagining hundreds of horrific scenarios which all end in disaster. He runs through the doorway and towards the screeching. What he finds is not at all what he imagined.

There, standing on a chair and screaming bloody murder, is his new neighbour. He is staring, wide-eyed, at a corner of the room where Derek can see a medium sized spider hanging out, minding its own business. He takes in the scene in front of him, his eyebrows so high they could be mistaken for part of his hairline.

When his neighbour (who, Derek notices, has practically a galaxy of freckles and moles decorating his skin) finally notices Derek standing in his kitchen, he jumps and his screams cease ( _Thank god_ , Derek thinks). “Oh. Hi neighbour, could you maybe get rid of this fucking great spider for me?” His voice cracking on ‘spider’ betrays the seemingly indignant and confident tone.

Derek stands there for a moment before he calmly walks over to the drying rack next to the sink and selects a plastic container. He reaches around Freckles’ chair to grab a notebook and turns back to survey the spider. In about three seconds, he has the spider trapped between the wall and the container, and then the notebook and the container. As he turns to walk to the nearest window, Freckles shrinks back. Derek is careful to keep his body between the container and Freckles as he dumps the spider out of a window directly opposite the kitchen.

Freckles’ sigh of relief is audible even across the room and when Derek turns back, he has visibly relaxed, going so far as to step down off the chair. “Thanks,” he breathes.

Derek just nods his acknowledgement and stands next to the window awkwardly.

“So… Do you normally come barging into other people’s apartments or is this a welcome-to-the-building/initiation thing? Not that I’m not grateful, of course. I mean, you saved me from that spi- that _thing_. You’re my saviour, my rescuer, my knight in shining armour.”

When it becomes clear that Freckles isn’t going to stop for breath, Derek interrupts. “I’m a firefighter. When I hear screaming, it’s a knee-jerk reaction to investigate.”

“Oh. Right. Cool.” Here, Freckles smiles and sticks out his hand. “I’m Stiles, by the way. Figure you should know who you fireman-rescued.”

“Derek,” he replies, taking the proffered hand and shaking it. He politely ignores the slight tremble in the (surprisingly) larger hands.

“Man of few words, huh? But that’s ok, I talk enough for two people,” he jokes. “Do you want something to drink? A sort of thank you for saving me from the man-eating arachnid?”

“No, thanks, I should get home.” It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Stiles (although his incessant chatter could potentially be both soothing and fucking annoying; Derek is leaning towards the latter), it’s just that he has had a  _really_  long day and the thought of his big comfy bed in his own apartment almost makes him groan right then and there.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Stiles says, hastily dropping Derek’s hand—Derek had forgotten they were still clasped. “You need to get home. Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll come for that drink another time,” Derek says, mostly to settle Stiles’ obvious discomfort.

“Oh, awesome! Great, well I’ll see you then!” Stiles replies enthusiastically.

Derek hides a smile by turning to the door and exiting quickly. Just before he steps over the threshold, he looks back.

“See you around, Stiles.”

◊◊◊ 

Derek turns the keys, locking his apartment, just as the door to his left bursts open and Stiles comes hurtling through, leaning back against the door once it’s closed. His hands are shaking like the first time Derek talked to Stiles, like he’s scared, and his breathing is loud and fast. But Derek doesn’t notice this at first because all he is thinking is  _wet_ and _skin_.

Stiles is leaning against his door in nothing but a towel, evidently having just come from a shower. His hair is wet and dripping down his chest, leaving trails of water that Derek traces with his eyes.

It’s not until Stiles lets out a shaky whimper that he snaps out of his daze enough to realise that something is wrong. “Stiles?”

Stiles lifts his head from the door and notices him standing there. “Oh thank god, Derek. Oh my god, I was having a shower and there was- it came out of nowhere, and it was just sitting there looking all smug and  _terrifying_  and I couldn’t be in the same room with it. I almost fucking  _touched_  it,  _god_. I mean, it was on the fucking _shampoo_ bottle for fucks sake and I didn’t see it and I reached out to wash my hair and then it fucking  _moved_ and-”

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Derek cuts in before Stiles can work himself into a panic attack. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh my god  _thank_ you, fuck,” he says passionately, accompanying it with a fierce hug. Derek stiffens (though not enough for Stiles to tell), overcome by the feeling of Stiles’ naked skin on his, even through his work shirt. Stiles smells amazing, clean and fresh and like _him_ , cinnamon and coffee, and it is intoxicating. Derek is hit by a wave of lust, one stronger than any he’s had before and he fights not to just pin Stiles against the door and ravish him there and then, make him smell like the both of them together.

When Stiles lets go, Derek takes a moment to collect himself, clearing his throat and turning away in the guise of going into Stiles’ apartment. He deals with the spider quickly and excuses himself from a celebratory drink.

When he gets to work—late for the first time in months—he can’t really concentrate and the guys pick up on it, Isaac even going so far as to pull him aside and ask what the problem is.

Derek leaves even more frustrated than he was that morning, not having come to terms with this sudden, aching attraction.

Later that night, when he comes with Stiles’ name on his lips, Derek finally acknowledges to himself that he is screwed.

◊◊◊

A few days later, Derek has convinced himself that Stiles is straight, as confirmed in their brief hallway interactions by his worship of the elusive Lydia, his TA at University. Derek can’t afford to pine after young gorgeous boys way out of his league, so he tries to control himself around Stiles, hoping not to ruin the budding friendship they have. But it is hard forcing himself not to notice Stiles’ freckles when he drains the dregs of a beer, not to notice his adorable dimples, not to notice his unconscious  _allure_. He takes his frustration out on his dick, jacking off to whatever porn he can find that doesn’t remind him of the annoying brunette.

Derek is interrupted from his brooding when a voice calls out “Hey, Derek!". His perpetual frown smooths out when he sees Stiles bounding up the sidewalk towards him. Derek pauses in front of the stairs leading up to their apartment building and waits for him. Stiles is beaming, although slightly out of breath, when he finally halts scarcely two feet in front of him. Derek can't help his answering smile, Stiles' in response becoming impossibly brighter.

They stare stupidly at each other for a few seconds before Derek snaps himself out of it. He clears his throat (he seems to do that a lot around Stiles) and nods towards their building, arching a questioning brow.

"Right, yeah," Stiles says. "Going home, entering the building, right."

Derek hides his amusement by climbing the steps ahead of Stiles. He swipes his key card and opens the door wide enough to let Stiles through behind him. He crosses the foyer to the mail room, expecting the monthly update letter from his mother back in Beacon Hills. As he is opening his letterbox he sees Stiles in his periphery shuffling awkwardly around him to get to his own letter box, just next to Derek's.

"So, how was your day?" Stiles asks as he struggles with the key.

"Fine," Derek replies, not wanting to delve into the domestic fire that almost cost a young child her life.

Stiles glances up at his despondent tone and tries to lighten the mood. "Rescue any kittens?"

Derek snorts, his lips quirking unconsciously. He's grateful for the distraction and turns to Stiles to offer a witty retort, but Stiles, having finally wrenched his mail box open, lets out a high pitched shriek, jumping away. Derek sees a small, black rubbery thing hit the floor along with Stiles' mail before the wind is knocked out of him by a high speed tackle. Stiles is chanting "ohmigod" into Derek's chest, the cadence sharp and fast. Derek wraps his arms around him automatically and shifts them slightly away from, what he sees now, is a fake spider.

"Hey, shhhh, it's fake, it's not real. You're ok, it's not gonna hurt you." Derek soothes Stiles quietly, his hands rubbing comfortingly (he hopes) across his back.

Gradually, Stiles' shaking subsides and his chanting ceases. When he's finally relaxed and Derek has paused his reassurances, Stiles declares passionately, "I'm gonna fucking kill him."

Derek's caresses don't stop as he asks, "Who?"

"My ex, Jackson. God, he's such an asshole. And still so fucking bitter even after, what, a year?"

But Derek has stopped listening, his hands stilled. He. Stiles' ex is a  _he_?! Derek's mind spirals with all the possibilities that he had closed off until now. Stiles in Derek's boxers, making bacon and eggs on Derek's stove. Stiles a writhing mess sprawled out on Derek's mattress. Stiles pinning his hands against Derek's door. Fuck. This is going to become an awkward situation very soon if he doesn’t control his libido. He wrestles his mind back from the gutter and refocuses on Stiles' words.

"... I mean, god. It was about time someone dumped his ass anyway. I swear, he's got Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I mean, he can't even appreciate the fact that hiding a fake spider in my letter box is  _not_ ok. Phobias aren’t a fucking joke."

Derek clears his throat (again). Stiles seems to realise that he is still octopussed around Derek and quickly detaches himself. "Oh, right, sorry for clinging a bit there. I get a bit like that when I'm anxious or scared. Actually, that's a lie, I'm like that all the time. I got lots of cuddles as a child so I'm, like, conditioned to want hugs constantly,” Stiles rambles.

Derek interrupts him before he can hurt himself. "Hey, it's fine. I'm a pretty cuddly person, too," he says, completely straight faced, sporting manly stubble and the perpetual crease between his brows. Stiles smiles, relaxing again.

"Thanks for saving me." His smile turns soft and slightly suggestive, but that could just be Derek projecting.

"Any time."

◊◊◊

Derek is jolted from sleep by frantic knocking. He groans and buries his head under his pillows, hoping whoever it is will  _fuck off_. But the incessant pounding continues, a timid “Derek?” breaking through. Derek sighs and curses his newfound inability to say no to stupid, annoying, stupidly annoyingly  _hot_ neighbours.

Derek stumbles his way to the front door and wrenches it open, a harsh “What?” escaping his lips as his face settles into a perfect imitation of Grumpy Cat. The pitiful image that greets him makes him immediately regret his abrasive tone.

Standing on his doorstep is Stiles, dressed in threadbare Spiderman themed pyjamas, looking to all the world like a complete wreck. Having retracted his hand from knocking on the door, it has now joined his other hand tucked protectively under his arms. He is hunched in on himself, eyes downcast. But it is really his face that pulls at Derek, his red, swollen eyes and pinched mouth: he looks miserable, anxious and scared.

“What’s wrong?” Derek bids, softer than before.

Stiles sniffles and mumbles, “Had a nightmare… There was this- this huge spider,” here he pauses to shiver, “and it was gonna eat me…” He trails off, but Derek has heard enough. He reels Stiles in by the biceps and all but crushes him to his chest. He lets the door close behind Stiles, cuddling him impossibly closer when Stiles takes a shaky breath and clings back. Derek periodically runs his hand through Stiles’ short hair, cradling him as Stiles comes apart in his arms.

They stand there together for an eternity, seeking and giving comfort. Once they are both more relaxed, Derek slowly detaches himself from Stiles, smiling in spite of himself at the soft whine of protest that elicits. “How about some milk?” he asks gently, never letting go of Stiles’ biceps.

Stiles nods and Derek guides him towards the small kitchen. He sits him down at the dining table and busies himself putting together Stiles’ comfort drink. He selects his most cheerful mug—ladybug red with black spots—and places the full mug on the table in front of Stiles.

Stiles looks up at him, a small smile lightening his face. He looks Derek in the eye significantly and says quietly, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies automatically, not sure what is so ground breaking about a mug of milk.

“No, I mean… well yeah, thanks for the milk, but what I meant was thanks for putting up with me.” He glances down shyly and takes a sip of his drink. A small milk-stache greets Derek when he looks up again, and Derek is hit with an almost overwhelming wave of affection, nearly missing Stiles’ next words. “It’s just that, well, you- you’re the first person that hasn’t made fun of me or anything about the spider thing. Everyone else is always king of a prick about it, but not you. I mean, when you saw me freaking out that first time, you just- you took the spider away. Jackson-” he stops and looks down at his hands, his tone turning dark. “Jackson was an asshole.”

“I’m afraid of clowns,” Derek blurts. Stiles turns to him in surprise and Derek forces himself not to flush. Oh well, he thinks, might as well tell him everything. “When I was a kid, my uncle, he forced me to watch  _It_ , you know the clown movie. Anyway, it was terrifying, and I had nightmares for weeks… So, now I’m afraid of clowns, and I haven’t been to a circus in twenty years.” He concludes, crossing his arms defensively when all Stiles does for a few seconds is stare at him wide-eyed.

Then, Stiles breaks into a huge, face-splitting grin. “That’s the most I’ve heard you speak.”

◊◊◊

Derek’s eyes snap open when his head slips down the back of the couch. A soft snore draws his attention to the lean body cuddled against his side and shoulder. “Shit,” Derek whispers. He remembers talking to Stiles, just talking; talking for hours about nothing and everything; talking about his mother and his sister and their meddling ways; his childhood in Beacon Hills; Stiles’ mother and her slow and agonising decline; his degree in ancient history, particularly mythology and folklore; their favourite flavour of ice cream (Stiles’ is chocolate, Derek’s, vanilla); beloved family pets; the ups and downs of Derek’s job; Stiles’ desire to become an academic hindered by his father’s failing health and imminent retirement. But most of all, they argued about who  _was_ , in fact, the best Avenger (Stiles argued that it was clearly Spiderman while Derek was adamant that it was, without a doubt, The Hulk). The last thing he remembers before falling asleep were the first calls of the morning chorus.

He wipes his tired eyes and glances at the clock. 12pm. He groans. Turning back to Stiles, he watches the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breaths, intermittently accompanied with a quiet snore. He takes in the shadows of Stiles’ eyelashes across his cheek bones, latticing his moles and freckles. His cupid’sbow mouth is slightly squashed against Derek’s shoulder and Derek can feel through his sleep shirt a small patch of drool.

Suddenly, he can see himself in this exact position ten, twenty years from now: Stiles asleep on his couch, on  _him_ , cuddled and protected, and he wants it, _wants_ it so bad he almost stops breathing, completely overcome with this sudden, all-consuming  _need_.

Stiles picks this moment to grumble adorably, his eyes crunching. “Whaaa…” he groans.

Derek clears his throat. “Afternoon.”

“Oh.” Derek can see Stiles trying to shake off the grogginess of sleep. “Um, right. Oh! Oh my god, I drooled all over your shoulder. But I can’t be accountable for Asleep Stiles’ actions! I don’t have control over him, he does what he wants and I have to pay the price, oh my god, please don’t kill me.” Stiles continues to babble on as Derek watches, struggling to keep his face from breaking into a huge, embarrassingly fond smile.

“Stiles,” he finally cuts in, taking pity on him when we starts in on Asleep Stiles’ past transgressions (which has apparently included sleep-stealing of other people’s bedding and in fact beds as well). Stiles’ mouth snaps shut. “It’s ok.”

Stiles looks down, a small smile on his lips. A comfortable silence settles around them before Stiles breaks it to say, “I should probably go.”

Derek, taken aback by this, doesn’t reply immediately. Stiles, uncomfortable, stands. When he steps in front of Derek to get to the door, Derek reaches out to grab onto his hand, loathe to say goodbye. Stiles glances at his captured wrist and then up into Derek’s eyes, a questioning and apprehensive look on his face.

“You don’t have to,” Derek says softly. “I mean… You don’t have to leave.”

Stiles searches Derek’s face and seems to be satisfied with what he finds because suddenly they are kissing. Derek gasps, surprised, and Stiles’ tongue is in his mouth. The kiss is exploratory, tentative, and just a little bit desperate. Derek’s hands find themselves on Stiles’ hips and he drags him down into his lap. Stiles, now straddling Derek, runs his hands through Derek’s hair.

Their kiss slowly becomes more frantic, each of them gasping for air whenever they can, not wanting to stop for even oxygen. They kiss and kiss, and when Derek is about to faint from lack of air he tears his mouth away and latches onto Stiles’ long neck instead. He maps out a path, dot-to-dot, laving affection onto Stiles’ many moles. Stiles groans and throws his head back. Stiles shudders just at the pressure of Derek’s tongue on a spot just above Stiles’ collarbone. Derek immediately attacks, biting and sucking, practically torturing that little section of skin and Stiles  _loves_ it. He bucks uncontrollably, interchanging between grinding down onto Derek’s erection and rubbing his own against Derek’s toned stomach. Derek growls possessively as his hands roam Stiles’ body. He leans back after a while to inspect his handiwork and moans appreciatively at the purpling bruise.

Stiles seizes Derek’s head and smashes their lips together. His kiss is wild and sloppy, completely gone already. Derek drags his hand down Stiles’ stomach and pauses suggestively just above his crotch. Stiles whines and thrusts upwards, trying to get any sort of friction on his cock. Derek takes pity on Stiles: he cups his bulge and squeezes. Stiles squeaks adorably and Derek needs to hold him without the barrier of clothes.

He shoves his hands underneath Stiles’ Spiderman pyjamas, one curling around Stiles’ surprisingly long dick and the other going around to grip his pert ass. He drags the latter down the back of his thighs, taking the pants with it and leaving Stiles exposed. Derek looks his fill, taking in the angry red flush of Stiles’ cock and the way his hips twitch up into his hand.

“Derek.”

He looks up into Stiles’ face, seeing the desperation and the raw, unadulterated  _want_.

“ _Please_.”

Derek growls and swoops in to thrust his tongue between Stiles’ parted lips. He pumps Stiles’ cock roughly, sensing that Stiles is too far gone for teasing, his whines rising in pitch and tempo. Soon he can’t even move his lips to kiss Derek back, simply letting Derek do all the work.

Derek pulls away from his mouth and trails open-mouthed kisses across his jaw and neck, down to the dark hickey. He sucks the sore skin back into his mouth and scrapes his teeth across it. This tips Stiles over the edge, long strings of come striping his and Derek’s shirt and making Derek’s pumps slick and wet. Derek pulls back to watch his face: Stiles’ mouth is open and he has gone completely silent, face screwed up in almost painful ecstasy.

Stiles slowly relaxes, his eyes opening. His chest heaves as he looks at Derek for a second before he kisses him thoroughly, hands gripping the side of Derek’s head. Derek lets his mouth be ravaged, his hand still wrapped around Stiles’ softening cock. Stiles starts to slide down onto the floor between Derek’s legs, forcing Derek to lean forward, Stiles’ hands still clenched firmly around his head. He finally releases his hold when he is settled, kneeling on the ground with his torso framed by Derek’s muscled calves.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, his voice rough with arousal: his dick really appreciates the look of Stiles on his knees.

“Shh,” Stiles commands. Derek stays silent as Stiles pulls down his sleep pants, pulls them down his thighs so that his thick, full cock pops out and slaps into Derek’s stomach. Stiles licks his lips hungrily.

Suddenly, Derek is encased in velvety heat, Stiles’ broad hands the only thing stopping him from bucking wildly. Stiles’ works him relentlessly, almost to the point of pain. He is seconds away from coming when it abruptly stops. He looks down to complain loudly, but the words get stuck in his throat at the predatory gleam in Stiles’ eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, Stiles slowly, agonisingly slowly, slides the point of his tongue up the underside of his cock, stopping on his frenulum to press down lightly. Derek can’t help the strained moan from escaping his parted lips and Stiles smirks triumphantly. He closes his lips around the head and laves his tongue along the slit. Bringing his hand up from Derek’s hip, he wraps it around the base of his cock, lifting it up from his stomach. Pulling his foreskin up and over the head, his tongue wriggles underneath and ignites Derek’s body on fire.

Derek can’t look at Stiles anymore, his piercing stare too much along with the sensations he’s wringing from his body. His head falls onto the back of the couch and his eyes close. Stiles continues his brutally teasing ministrations, backing off whenever Derek nears climax. Soon, it becomes almost unbearable.

“Stiles, if you don’t let me fucking come—” Derek starts and is interrupted by an outburst of laughter. Derek glares down at him, contemplating ripping his throat out. With his teeth.

“Ok, ok” Stiles concedes around a smug smirk. And then Derek is once again enveloped in Stiles’ wonderful, sinfully skilful mouth.

It’s not long after that Derek gets close again, straining up against Stiles’ hands. Then, all at once, Stiles dips all the way down, his nose brushing against corse hair. Derek practically howls and comes pulsing down Stiles’ throat. Stiles doesn’t even flinch, swallowing around him, drawing out several more spurts.

Derek collapses, the taut arch of his back relaxing into the couch cushions. He flinches as Stiles continues to suck his prick as if reluctant to stop.

Eventually, Stiles releases him with an obscene pop. Derek stares at his red, puffy lips and his cock gives a feeble twitch.

“So, does this mean you’ll always be there to put out my fire?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Derek judges him with a single, arched brow.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://www.shadowpatronus.tumblr.com)


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